Pecan Pie
by Mikki13
Summary: Admidst a disastrous cooking expedition, Sarah realizes just how much she has to be thankful for.


**A/N: **So I wasn't supposed to write this. I wasn't really supposed to write anything. In fact, I have a family waiting for my home-cooked Thanksgiving dinner, probably salivating every time they hear the crash of a pan. The problem is, it sort of fell upon me early this morning, when I was still trying to sleep in. And the idea grew and took hold from there. So Happy Thanksgiving, Fandom. I hope you enjoy the tale. ;-)

**A/N 2: **This is based around the "Full Circle," "To Have and To Hold" universe. However, you totally don't have to read those first. All that is required is an understanding that Chuck and Sarah have traversed the obstacles thrown at them by the CIA and are now (*gasp*) married. ;-)

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. In fact, I'm pretty certain that _Chuck_ owns me.

~*~

_Thump. Clatter. Bang. Clang. CRAAASSSHH._

The late Burbank sun streams through the windows of the bright yellow house, its soft, vibrant rays playing across the carpet and lighting up every facet of the medium-sized home. An assortment of magazines rests upon the polished wooden table (everything from Computer World to American Cop to the latest issue of People); a pile of jumbled, unfolded clothes clutters a far corner of the plush leather couch; and the remains of a messy snack rests haphazardly upon an arm chair. But as he enters the house with furrowed brow and parted lips, Chuck Bartowski notices none of this. Nor does he notice the jumble of shoes piled randomly in a nearby corner, or the soft hum of the television set, from which a cheesy cartoon now plays. In fact, the only thing that he notices, the only thing that even infiltrate his mind is the rancid, burning smell permeating through the house, the thin stream of smoke emanating from the kitchen, and the cacophony of noises sounding from the distant room.

"Sarah?" he calls in alarm, stepping over a stray sneaker as he walks carefully through his living room. "Honey? What's going on?"

"Mmcnkfa," comes the muffled response, followed immediately by another loud _CRASH_ and another deafening _BANG_.

The creases in his forehead deepening, Chuck hastily speeds up his movements and pushes through the smoky dining room, heading straight into the kitchen. The sight that greets him there is nearly enough to make his head swim. Flour litters every available surface, pots and pans have been pulled out of every conceivable cabinet, and a mess of sticky butter and syrup is pooled upon the nearest counter and across the sooty stove. Stopping in his tracks, Chuck's jaw drops and his eyes widen as he takes in the mess.

"Hi," Sarah greets him, a tight smile accentuating her flour-bedecked face as she throws something into the smoldering skillet. "How was work?"

"Fine," he replies weakly, coughing slightly when a stream of smoke wafts up his nose. And then: "Um, Sarah?" he ventures, taking a hesitant step into the kitchen even as his heart skips a beat when he notices how gorgeous she is even when her hair is disheveled. But then he pushes that thought aside, instead delving directly into the matter at hand. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" she returns, turning her back as she tosses another unidentifiable substance into the concoction boiling on the range.

Biting his lower lip, Chuck's gaze once again flickers from the ingredients littering their kitchen to the woman standing at the stove to the smoke billowing within their vicinity. And before he can stop himself, before he even realizes what he's going to say, the words slip from his mouth. "Waging World War III in our kitchen?" he tries, smiling good-naturedly when she shoots him a look.

"No," she answers tersely, grabbing a spoon to stir the unidentifiable substance.

"Um, entering the Burbank Science Fair?" he tries again, then cringes when her expression becomes slightly scathing.

"Of course not," she returns, gritting her teeth when the spoon gets stuck in the skillet. And then, as though it should have been obvious all along: "I figured that since I have the day off, I'd make pecan pie for your sister's Thanksgiving celebration."

"Right," Chuck says brightly, nodding even as a dubious hue colors his features. "That was going to be my next guess."

"Chuck," she admonishes, giving the spoon up as lost and turning to face the computer nerd. "This is our first Thanksgiving as a married couple. The least you could do is be a little more supportive."

Immediately, his dubious expression turns contrite, and Chuck crosses the kitchen. "I'm sorry," he says, his lips curling into a tender smile when she allows him to wrap his arms around her slender frame. "I just . . . I'm not used to coming home to find the kitchen this way. It was a little bit of a surprise."

Even while relaxing into his embrace, even with his nimble fingers stroking her smooth, bare skin, she gazes sternly into his dark brown eyes for a long moment, her lips pursed even as tiny prickles of electricity shoot through her shoulders and cause goose bumps to break out in their path. But when his expression remains repentant, and a loving gleam enters the tender look reflected within his eyes, she can't help but shake her head and smirk. "I never said I was a good cook," she retorts, eyeing him coyly.

"What about all of those meals you made when you were still in the CIA?" he asks, cocking his head.

"Come on, Chuck," Sarah counters, her smirk growing more pronounced as she leans against his forehead. "Do you really think I had time to make all that food?"

"Well, then where did you get it?" he prods, his breath hitching as his gaze drops to her lips.

"Easy," she replies lightly, shrugging as she inches closer to his mouth. "The CIA whipped it up, and then delivered it to wherever I needed it."

"So you're saying that you've been cheating during our entire relationship?" Chuck replies playfully, his pulse increasing as he feels her breath warm against his cheek.

"I wouldn't call it cheating," she murmurs, going cross-eyed as her mouth moves within a few millimeters of his own. "Just simplifying."

And then she kisses him, their lips pressing together in a soft, heated embrace as the concoction on the stove slowly begins to boil over and course down the smoky range. And for a moment, Chuck revels in the fact that even after six months of marriage, she can still make him feel as though he's seeing her for the very first time. As if this thing they have, this unshakable bond, this intense connection is all brand new, all fresh and unique. But then the steamy sizzle of liquid puddling onto the grill breaks into his thoughts, interrupting the moment, interrupting the kiss, and he reluctantly releases Sarah from his arms.

"Damn it!" she cries, twisting out of Chuck's hold and grabbing the skillet from the stove. Rushing to the sink, she throws the angry concoction into the bubbly suds, causing the water to spill over the edge and onto the floor. And when it sloshes upon her legs, she groans and places her head into her hands, her jaw tight with tension.

"Oops," Chuck says, gazing at the mess in bewilderment. But when he notices his wife standing by the sink, her head buried in her hands, his expression softens and he steps over to her side. "Sarah, it's okay," he says, placing his hand on her arm. "We can always buy a pie."

"That's not it, Chuck," she returns, whirling around to gaze at him in consternation. "This was our first Thanksgiving as a married couple. I wanted it to," she pauses here, and he's almost certain that he can see the warring emotions battling upon her face. Almost as if she's returning to her old ways, as if she's unsure how much she's willing to reveal. But then she takes a deep breath and shakes her head, her expression leveling out once more. "I wanted it to be special," she finishes quietly, staring at a spot over his left shoulder.

Chuck's chest constricts, a faint smile spreading across his face. "Sarah, don't you get it?" he replies, placing his finger under her chin so that he can look into her bright blue eyes. "It _is_ special. It's special because we're together. It's special because you're here with me. Even if we don't have pecan pie, it's special because I get to spend my Thanksgiving with you."

Swallowing gently, she stares into his eyes for a long moment, a plethora of emotions flowing through her own. Surprise. Affection. Awe. "Well, when you put it that way," she finally says, a hint of humor returning to her gaze. "I guess it is a pretty good holiday."

"You guess?" Chuck counters, a mischievous look wafting across his features as his fingers suddenly travel to her stomach and begin a ticklish dance across her t-shirt concealed skin. The laughter that bubbles from her lips is more than enough to make up for the warning glare she shoots him when she starts to squirm under his touch. It's a routine they've grown used to, a ritual they've come to enjoy, perhaps more so because they never would have entered into it when she was still in the CIA, but also because it's a sign that they're a normal couple, complete with messy kitchens and moments of laughter and fun.

"Fine," she says, grabbing his hands in one lightning quick movement. "It's a great holiday, Chuck. Amazing," she continues, still holding his wrists firm in her grasp as she leans toward him for another kiss. "Are you happy now?"

"I don't know," Chuck replies, finally extracting his hands so that he can wrap his arms around her soft, supple body. "I can think of a few things that might make me happier." And he leans in to brush his lips against her soft mouth once more.

"Mmm," Sarah murmurs, her teeth grazing his lower lip as the messy kitchen slips from her mind. "Like what, Mr. Bartowski?"

"Well, it occurs to me," Chuck replies in between kisses, shivering slightly when Sarah threads her fingers through his hair, "that we haven't had a chance to christen the kitchen yet."

An impish gleam enters Sarah's eyes, and suddenly she's moving a hand to grasp Chuck's shirt collar, the other still tangled within his curly brown locks. "It occurs to me that you're right," she whispers, pulling him toward the nearest counter. "Maybe we should do something to change that."

"Maybe we should," Chuck says, pushing his hand underneath Sarah's shirt so that he can knead her lower back. "After all," he kisses her again, "it wouldn't be a holiday without a christening."

Laughing softly, Sarah breaks lip contact for a moment as she launches herself onto the counter, her long, lean legs curling around his lanky frame. "Well," she says, pulling him to her with her bare feet, "We certainly can't have that." And then she captures his mouth in a sizzling kiss, her tongue darting out to stroke his lower lip before plunging his deep recesses and beginning a heated duel with his own smooth tongue.

And when he begins to explore her body in earnest, and his fingers burn a blazing path upon her skin, and their bodies move together in a sensuous, instinctual dance, their clothes strewn about piles of flour and puddles of syrupy butter, she realizes that there are many things that she's thankful for. She's thankful for the man wrapped tightly in her arms. She's thankful for the normal life they've been allowed to lead. But most of all, she's thankful for moments like this, when she can succumb to Chuck's touch and let the world slip away. Because even after everything they've been through, and even though it took them years to get to this point, the fact remains that they've made it. That they've beaten the odds, they've traversed the barriers, they've overcome the obstacles.

So as fiery sparks of pleasure flare through her body and she begins to tremble under his touch, she forgets the mess littering the kitchen and simply allows herself to be grateful that she's here with Chuck now. Held tightly in his arms. Enjoying the life they've created. Enjoying the world he's given her, full of hope and family and yes, even pecan pie.


End file.
